


(Making) Coffee and a Different Call

by PaigeTurner



Series: Bullet Points [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adoption, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, F/M, Family, Forced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Pre-Canon, The "sass" in "assassin"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9540866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaigeTurner/pseuds/PaigeTurner
Summary: The at-least-remotely-plausible story of how and why Clint Barton saved Natasha instead of killing her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "When Barton was 27, Fury sent him on a mission to eliminate a young Russian assassin codenamed Black Widow" http://marvelcinematicuniverse.wikia.com/wiki/Nick_Fury  
> Alternate title "Why Accountants Shouldn't Write Fanfiction" When Barton was 27, Romanov was 13.
> 
> Not canon non-compliant. It's canon plausible. If you squint.

03.29.98; 05:00;

42.7623128,-92.4896379 (The Barton Homestead)

Clint stumbled, bleary eyed, into the kitchen. He could make the coffee without being truly awake, but he'd have to drink some before attempting to cook breakfast. He closed his eyes and leaned against the counter, deeply inhaling as the coffee began to drip into the pot. After a brief moment, he got out two mugs and set a skillet on the stove. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand touched his shoulder.

“I didn't hear you come down,” he said.

Laura gave him a tired half-smile. “You didn't sleep much last night.”

“I was out in the barn.”

“I know. I saw the light on. Sassy have her kittens?”

Clint nodded. “Four, but one didn't make it.”

Laura frowned and let a moment of silence pass to honor the little creature. “Did you name the rest?”

“Skinny, Stinky and Slowpoke. Might have to get some formula for Skinny, Sassy didn't seem to take to him like she should.”

“You're not allowed to name the barn cats anymore.” She traded him his phone for her mug. “Nick’s called twice.”

“I'll call him after breakfast.” He leaned in to kiss her.

“I'll make breakfast, you call now,” she insisted before yielding to the kiss.

Six years he'd been working for SHIELD, the director had called him on his personal phone five times, including these two missed calls from before dawn on a Saturday morning. Clint took the phone out onto the porch. He was wearing only purple plaid boxers, but they didn't have any neighbors within eyeshot.

“Barton.” His voice was flat when the line picked up.

“I have a job for you.”

The fact that Fury didn't give him a hard time about the missed calls niggled at Clint.

“Something big?” He guessed.

“I can't give it to anyone else. This came from the World Security Council, I need to know it'll be handled appropriately.”

Clint turned away from the phone to stifle a yawn. “Appropriate’s my middle name,” he said, scratching his balls with his free hand.

“We have a lead on an assassin from the Red Room. Council wants her eliminated. Red Room’s target is an American General. The assassin is a woman they call the Black Widow.”

“Sounds good.” Clint wished he'd brought his coffee out onto the porch. He could see it through the screen door, sitting on the countertop, all neglected and getting cold.

“You have two objectives: keep the General alive, kill the assassin. Come by my office today and pick up your packet.”

***

04.01.98; 21:05;

42.4438411,19.2586038 (Podgorica, Montenegro)

Clint had been tailing the general for 52 hours. This guy was throwing up all kinds of red flags. He'd hired a pair of locals as guide and security and he hadn't been anything resembling sober in the time Clint had been watching. The man was holed up in a cesspool of a hotel room; Clint was sure cockroaches wouldn't stay there.

One of the locals had been missing for a few hours. Working alone -- as was his preference -- Clint couldn’t afford to follow a lackey. When the man returned, he wasn't alone. He'd brought a girl. Clint watched through binoculars as the other local patted her down, copping a feel -- several feels -- in the process. Both the guards stepped out into the hall, closing the door.

Despite layers of heavy makeup, the girl looked like she was barely in the double digits. She wore a thin blouse, nothing under it, and a mini skirt no longer than the width of the General’s hand. He patted the bed, and she sat down next to him. Clint's stomach lurched.

The General picked up a baggie of white powder from the nightstand and showed it to the girl. He touched the front of her shirt, clumsily opening the top button. Clint lowered the binoculars and leaned back.

_“We don't know much about the assassin. Female, Russian, rumor says very pretty. She might be disguised as part of the hotel staff, a delivery girl, or a prostitute.”_

Clint whipped the binoculars back up. The General was out of sight, but Clint was just in time to see the girl spiking the baggie with some other white powder. She tucked her now empty plastic bag under the mattress seconds before the General staggered out of the bathroom.

Clint selected an arrow and fired across the street, embedding the projectile into the building right above the General’s window. The arrow trailed a narrow black cord behind it. He secured his end of the line and threw his bow over it. With a heavy sigh, Clint sailed across the street. He braced himself and hit the glass feet first.

The General was shooting at him before Clint even got his feet under him. Swearing under his breath, he rolled and charged. The General might've been a good fighter sober, but he was twice Clint's age and too drunk to walk straight. Barton got his hands on the gun and quickly turned it on the older man.

“Don't touch the drugs!” Clint ordered.

The girl was gone. Clint raced into the hall. He came out the door to see her drop one guard and turn her full focus on the other. Clint hesitated. Protecting these scumbags wasn't his objective. Watching her fight would be educational.

She was quick and graceful. A strategic fighter, she seemed to know she'd never have strength or size on her side.

As soon as the second man hit the floor, Clint shouted, “Stop!”

She turned to face him. She was barefoot; the top three buttons of her blouse undone. Her eyes widened when she saw the gun Clint had trained on her.

“Please, please,” she said, “I am not with him. I'm a bystander. Please don't shoot me.”

Clint chambered a round.

“I'll do anything.” Her voice quavered. Slowly she raised one trembling hand and unfastened the fourth button. “Anything.” Her hand dropped to the next button, gleaming like a little pearl between her fingers. “Please.”

“You're the Black Widow.”

The crocodile tears shimmering in her eyes evaporated. “Who are you?”

“I’m with SHIELD.”

The girl's shoulders sagged; her hand fell to her side.

“I'm supposed to kill you,” Clint said.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, dropping her chin the slightest bit.

He kept his distance, far enough back to pull the trigger before she could reach him, and fumbled out his phone. Speed dial number one.

“Aren't you supposed to be working?” Fury’s familiar voice greeted him.

“We have a big problem.”

“The General dead?”

“No.” Clint kept his voice very level. “I don't kill children. You know that.”

Eight feet down the hall, the girl opened her eyes.

“Children?” Fury’s confusion sounded genuine, but Clint could never quite tell over a phone line.

“Your Black Widow, sir, she looks like she's ten.”

The girl's jaw fell open, her upper lip curling into the perfect manifestation of shock and disgust.

“Bring her in, the council will find someone else willing to pull the trigger,” Fury said.

“If she escapes?” Clint asked.

“Oh, you wouldn't just let a thing like that happen,” the director’s voice took on a cloying quality. “I'm sure you tried your best.”

Clint hung up without another word. He looked at the girl. “You have a name?”

“I'd rather die than be taken prisoner,” she replied.

“They fit all that on a birth certificate? Your parents must've had some weird sense of humor.” He lowered the gun just an inch. “Clint Barton,” he stated.

She studied him, her eyes tracking over every part of his body. “Natalya Romanova.”

“Button your blouse, Natalya. You said you'd do anything if I don't shoot you. Did you mean it?”

She made no move to fasten her shirt. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to work for SHIELD.”

“I cannot betray them.” Her chin came up; she squared her shoulders.

“What they're asking you to do is wrong. I think you know that.”

“They asked me to poison a man who pays young girls for the privilege of snorting cocaine off their naked bodies. Are you sure they're wrong?”

“Okay, I'll give you that one. When they ask you to do something that isn't so black and white, I want you to call SHIELD.” Clint held up a burner phone. He programmed in two numbers, without looking, as he spoke. “And if they hurt you, or you get in over your head and SHIELD can't or won't help, my personal number is the second one.” He bent slowly and deliberately laid the cell on the carpet.

He backed away. “Pick up the phone, and I'll let you leave.”

“I'll never call.”

“I bet you say that to all the guys.” He backed up a few more steps.

She advanced; her eyes flicked from his face to the gun to the phone. She stepped over it and turned her back to him before bending from the hips to reach for it. Clint winced, turning his gaze away from the flash of red visible under the hem of her skirt.

“At least SHIELD has the budget to clothe its agents,” he remarked.

“Then you should requisition some sleeves.” Natalya glanced over her shoulder at him. She studied the phone for a moment and tucked it down the front of her skirt.

She didn't run. She sauntered -- the goddamned kid fucking sauntered down the hall like a smug cat. Then she was gone.

***

04.06.98; 18:16;

42.7623128,-92.4896379(The Barton Homestead)

“Did I do the right thing?” Clint asked.

“If you’d brought her in, Fury would’ve had someone else kill her. He told you that straight up,” Laura said gently.

“No, he told me TO bring her in SO someone else could kill her,” Clint corrected. He rubbed at a water spot on the kitchen table.

“You gave her the best chance you could.” She put her hand over his.

“I sent her back to people who taught her to seduce a man twice her age.” He met his wife’s gaze.

“She’s that young?”

“Twelve, maybe thirteen,” Clint guessed. “She was just a kid. Posing as a prostitute. She didn’t even flinch when he touched her.”

“You let her go. She chose to go back.”

“She’s being abused.” He pulled his hand away. “It’s hard to get away. Especially when you’re young.”

The kitchen timer beeped. “Dinner’s ready,” Laura observed flatly.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Clint.” Laura frowned.

“I’m going to go for a walk.” He stood. “Come on, Beau.” He patted his leg vigorously. A white-faced black and tan dog stood from under the table. With a sigh, Laura turned off the oven and followed.

The three of them walked in silence. They were nearly back to the house before Clint spoke.

“This isn’t over. I’ll find her again. I’ll convince her to come in.”

“And Fury will have her killed,” Laura pointed out. “Right now, she’s no safer with SHIELD than she is with the Red Room.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Clint asked. “Nothing?”

“Maybe she’ll call. If she can prove to them that she’s useful, that she wants to help….” She gave Clint’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Or that she wants to be helped.”

***

12.29.99; 23:56;

38.8950877,-77.0672599 (the Triskelion)

“We don’t want him to be aware of our presence or the potential threat,” Fury explained.

“Where did this come from?” Clint asked.

“Anonymous tip.”

“Oh. So it’s bullshit and you’re ruining my New Year’s for fun,” Clint said, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t know. Every other tip she’s given us has panned out.”

Clint’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed and a muscle twitched in his jaw as he tilted his head at Fury.

“Young female, faint Russian accent. We got a few calls. We hadn’t heard from her in a while. Keep Stark safe. If you see the assassin-” Nick said.

“Kill her?” Clint guessed.

“Tell her we’re sorry about the girl.” Fury shook his head. “Drakov was too tempting a target.”

Clint swallowed. “Is it her? The Black Widow?”

“Keep your eyes sharp at that conference. You tell me.”

***

12.31.99; 23:25;

46.948214,7.4465433 (Bern, Switzerland)

She stood near the bar, wearing a white dress and sipping something pink from a martini glass.

“You called,” Clint said quietly, standing next to her. She was taller than she’d been the first time they met.

“People were dying.” She looked down, closing her eyes for a moment and giving Clint a flash of the pink glitter on her lids. “What could I do?”

“Director Fury wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry about the girl.”

She drained the glass and set it on the bar with a heavy thunk. “Which one? The girl his men shot and killed in London? The one he failed to rescue, even after I called, the one who's been dead a year and six days? Or me?”

“I haven’t stopped worrying about you.” He glanced over at her. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too. About all three.”

“There he is. I have to go.”

Clint grabbed her by the arm. “You know I’m here to stop you from killing him.”

“Then stop me.” She stared at his hand. “Let go, or I’ll scream.”

Clint released her arm and gave her a critical once-over. “I got my sleeves,” he said, tugging down the cuffs of his jacket. “Where’s the rest of your dress?”

“In my room. Wanna see?” She smirked at him and leaned back slightly.

Clint’s instinctive response was to lean in over her, but he fought the urge.

“Still playing that tired tune?” Clint rolled his eyes and sighed.

“I’m not going to kill him in front of all these people. I just need to drug his bodyguard so I can get him alone later. See you.” She slipped into the crowd.

The people just parted for her like the Red Sea. Clint struggled to keep his eyes on her. He wormed through areas where the crowd was thinner and managed to cut her off before she reached Stark and his entourage.

“You can drug the bodyguard, but you’ll still have to deal with me.”

She looked him up and down. “I’ll seduce you.”

“It didn’t work last time,” Clint pointed out.

She shrugged. “You didn’t put a bullet in my head. And you gave me your number. I’d say it worked better than anticipated.”

Stark was at the elevator. If Clint could stall the girl a few more minutes, she’d lose her window. She knew it too. She feinted to his left and slipped past him on the right side, but Clint spun and caught her around the waist with one arm. The elevator doors closed and she stomped on his foot.

Clint stifled his yell, although the party was loud enough he wasn’t sure he’d be noticed unless he started yodeling. The girl disappeared through a door marked “Stairs.” He shoved through the crowd to chase her.

She was on the fourth step when he opened the door. He lunged up, grabbing her and slamming her into the wall. Her back arched over the railing.

“Ow.” She didn’t really sound pained.

“That was for my foot. You deserved that,” Clint retorted.

“I deserve so much worse.” Her voice was a low whisper, her accent less evident over the year and a half since he'd last heard her speak.

It wouldn't be long before the accent was imperceptible, even to those who knew to listen for it. She must've been studying with an American.

“If you wanted to kill Stark, you wouldn’t have tipped us off. You called specifically so we’d stop you.”

“I called to see if you’d stop me,” she countered. “You didn’t last time.”

It sounded like an accusation. _Drakov. The girl._ Clint hadn't been involved with the mission but he was aware of it, vaguely.

“I still don’t think you want to go through with this.”

“What I want has very little bearing on what I do.” She met his eyes. “The question is: are you willing to kill me to protect him?”

“Are you willing to die for this?” Clint countered.

She flinched, almost imperceptibly. Her pupils got bigger. “The price of failure is high.”

“If you go back,” Clint said, loosening his grip.

She took one step up. “If I came to SHIELD, would I be safe there?”

Clint didn’t answer immediately. It was answer enough. She smiled faintly. His hand slid down her arm.

“It’s a no-win situation.” She stepped up again. His fingers brushed hers as she slipped out of his grasp. She ascended one step at a time.

Clint began to slowly follow, a few steps below her. “Director Fury knows that you’re the one who’s been calling in the tips. That’s why he sent me. It’s a sign that it’s time for you to come in.”

She reached the second floor landing. “I can’t.”

“Why not? What’s keeping you there?” Clint asked.

She hesitated, her foot hovering above the next step up. “I don’t dare say it over the phone, no matter how secure you think the line is.”

“What is it?” He asked. They had some leverage over her.

“I don't dare tell the man who answers, no matter how much you think he can be trusted,” she said, setting her foot down and climbing the next two steps.

“Trust me.” Clint closed the gap, catching up to her half way up the second flight of stairs

“There’s an American prisoner of war. He’s being forced against his will to carry out their missions.” With her one step above him, they were nearly matched for height. She leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. “He’s been brainwashed.” Her hand settled on his shoulder, light as a bird. “Tortured. I can’t leave him behind.”

“We can get him out,” Clint said softly.

The concrete walls of the stairwell muffled the sounds of the party, but Natalya was suddenly dimly aware of the countdown. As fireworks and noisemakers blew in the background, she pressed her lips to his.

Clint recoiled, catching the railing as he stumbled down two steps. He gaped up at her, wide eyed.

“Save him, then me.” She turned and hurried across the landing, starting up the next set of stairs.

“Gotta save Stark first,” Clint muttered. He quickly caught her. “If you’re going to make a run for it, you might want to ditch the heels.”

She looked past him at the concrete steps, rusted metal wrapped over their edges of each riser. She glanced over her shoulder at the stairs ahead. “Hit me.”

Clint settled his weight, grounding himself; he clenched his fist tightly.

“I don't want to kill him,” she confessed. “Hit me.”

A right cross impacted high on her jaw. Her head snapped back with the force of the blow. Time seemed to slow down. Her mouth parted, blood blossoming at the left side of her lower lip. Her hair floated around her head like the halo of a long-forgotten saint. It took every ounce of willpower Clint had not to catch her as she turned and twisted and tumbled down the stairs.

***

01.01.00; 15:10;

42.7300707,-92.5132795 (The Barton Homestead)

Laura frowned at the chime of the doorbell. Cautiously she glanced through the window next to her front door. The sight on her porch made her blood run cold. Nick Fury, his hat and scarf and coat all black, stood in the snow holding a small gift bag. Her hands shook as she turned the lock. Opening the door, she could see herself reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses. Her hand hovered in front of her mouth, her eyes wide and shining, her cheeks pale.

“No,” she whispered.

A crease appeared above the bridge of the sunglasses. “What? No, no, he’s fine. Laura, he’s fine.” Nick pulled off the shades. “He should be here in maybe half an hour. He’s skipping the debrief and I want to hear what happened.”

Laura let out a trembling breath. “This is how it’d go, though, if he wasn’t. Isn’t it?” She looked Fury over. “You’d come in person. Not a phone call, not a messenger. And you’d bring a gift. As if that could make up for it.”

“It’s good luck to have a visitor bring a gift on New Year’s Day,” he replied. “Can I come in?”

She stepped back from the doorway to admit him, watching as he carefully knocked the snow off his boots.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said, unwinding his scarf.

“Do you want some coffee or something?” Laura began to recover from her initial shock and remember her manners. She couldn’t quite slow her heart or steady the quiver of her hands until Clint walked in the door twenty-seven minutes later.

Laura went to him immediately, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her head to his chest. She felt his arms encircle her. Fury looked out the kitchen window, giving them their privacy as he watched the snow swirl in the wind.

Clint wasn't fine.

Physically, he was unharmed. Laura examined him with a critical eye. There was a fresh scab forming on the knuckles of his right hand. No other injuries. But she could feel pain radiating off him like heat from a fire. She poured him a cup of coffee.

“Was it her?” she asked as she set the mug on the table.

Clint sat and stared at the steam rising off the dark liquid. He nodded.

“You had to do it this time?” Laura guessed.

“I sent her back again,” Clint said quietly. “So she's alive, and Stark’s alive.” He glanced over at Fury. “I want everything on those phone calls and the associated missions.”

Fury sipped his coffee. “That's a bit above your pay grade.”

“It's necessary intel for my mission.”

“Your mission is over,” the director replied.

Clint shook his head. “I have a new one.”

Fury raised an eyebrow. Clint raised his mug. He took a long drink from the cup. “She says they have an American prisoner. She wants SHIELD to save him.”

“And?” Fury prompted.

Clint nearly spit out his coffee. “And this is huge. First off, if every tip this kid has called in has panned out for us, we owe her. She wants out, but she won't leave unless he's safe.”

“Have you considered just extracting her?” Fury leaned back in his chair. “Frankly, I'm surprised you came back alone.”

“She made it pretty clear she won't cooperate unless we can guarantee his safety.” Clint leaned in, propping his elbows on the table, both hands wrapped around his coffee.

“There are no guarantees, and you should know better than to let a fifteen year old call the shots.”

“So you did know how old she was,” Laura observed. She leaned against the kitchen counter, near the coffee maker.

Fury frowned and glanced around the kitchen quickly. Barton was blocking the most obvious exit. The director would put money on there being a weapon hidden in the drawer at Laura’s hip.

“She gave Barton her name when they met the first time. If it was real, she was born in 84, just outside Stalingrad.”

“I'm going to need all that too,” Clint said.

“You can have the intel on Miss Romanov,” Fury replied. “But you won't move on it until I say go.”

“I'll move when I'm ready to move. And you'll put me in the loop when she calls again.”

***

01.09.00; 16:43

A birth certificate written in Cyrillic, a handful of recordings of the phone calls she’d made to SHIELD HQ, mission reports dating all the way back to former Director Carter’s early days with the Strategic Scientific Reserve: Clint had his hands full.

He ordered computer software to learn Russian and put in a request for a tutor at SHIELD.

***

04.18.00; 06:24;

-6.3772784,102.7476118 (Jakarta)

Clint tucked his foot around hers, bending his knee to force her off balance. “Tell me about the American.”

She wrapped both her legs around his, twisting her body as she fell and pulling him down to the ground as well. “They call him the Winter Soldier. They freeze him between missions.”

Clint rolled and flung his weight over her body to keep her down. “Freeze him?”

She hit him right in the nose and said something in Russian, a word he definitely hadn’t learned yet. Clint slammed his fist down into her stomach. “Cryogenics,” she croaked. “I don’t know where they keep the chamber.”

Natalya grabbed Clint by the head and twisted, forcing him to fall to his side to protect his neck.

“What do you know?” He hooked one leg behind her knee, pulling her closer.

“We work together sometimes. I’ve seen them brainwash him. This huge chair. Like an electric chair. It must hurt. Everyone in the building can hear him screaming.”

“Call me the next time you’re working together.”

“He’ll kill you.” She drove her elbow into his inner thigh and slipped out of his grip.

***

09.30.00; 11:58;

42.7623128,-92.4896379 (The Barton Homestead)

Laura rolled over to face him and Clint glanced her way.

“Is the laptop keeping you awake?” he asked. “I can take it down to the couch.”

She pulled her shoulders back, stretching her back and sat up. “What are you reading?”

“KGB experiments with cryogenics.”

“Learning anything interesting?” Laura leaned over, peering at the screen.

“That no one knows more about freezing than the Russians.” He glanced at the clock. “I should probably just call it a night.

“Need help falling asleep?” Laura’s hand trailed down his chest, lingering at the waistband of his boxers.

“Yeah?”

She waggled her eyebrows at him. Clint bowed his head to capture her mouth with a kiss. He closed the laptop, lowering it off the side of the bed with one hand.

***

She called SHIELD two or three times a year, and he went, absorbing little nuggets of information about her, her employer, and the American. Between calls, he read and researched and ran into dead end after dead end.

***

03.19.02; 03:03;

Clint’s phone rang. He rubbed his eyes and stared at a number he'd never seen before. The country code was 7. Clint blinked hard. Seven was Russia, wasn’t it?

“Hello?”

“Agent Barton,” she said softly. Her voice was raw and trembling.

“What's wrong?” He rolled out of bed and padded down the stairs so he wouldn't disturb Laura. The line was silent just long enough to make him think she'd hung up.

“I wanted to thank you. You've done more for me than anyone else ever has.”

Clint’s breathing slowed as a chill permeated his body. “Natalya?”

“And I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye? What's going on? Are you in danger?”

“All my life.” He could hear the wry smile playing at her lips.

“Tell me.” He held the phone in his right hand; his left curled into a fist, nails digging crescents into his palm.

“I asked for an extraction. SHIELD didn't say no, but I don’t think they’re coming,” she explained.

“Where?”

“You won't get here in time. I couldn’t risk another call until now. Don't. Don’t come. Don’t throw your life away. Nothing can save me now.”

“Where?” Clint repeated, his voice low and rough.

“Volgograd, there's a little boarding school on the west side of town, named for Saint Euphrosyne. It’ll start in a few hours. It will be over before you arrive.”

“Is the American there?”

“He left five days ago for Hong Kong. I told the man at SHIELD. If I knew where he was, I would've saved him myself. “

Clint sighed in frustration. “Why are you calling now?”

“I wanted to thank you. I wanted to say goodbye. Maybe, I just wanted to hear your voice again. One last time. I think you're the closest thing to a friend that I have.”

“You're welcome, Natalya. I'll see you tomorrow.” He hung up. Clint had purchased a quinjet a few years earlier, when SHIELD was upgrading its fleet. He’d kept in good repair, even adding a few not-for-civilian-use features. He'd named it Lady Liberty. Laura jokingly called it the Cropduster. He checked the fuel levels and ran down a pre-flight checklist in his head.

It was nearly dawn and Clint was brewing a second pot of coffee when he called Fury.

“I need to take a few days off,” Clint began. “Family emergency.”

“Everyone alright?” Fury asked. He feigned concern so well.

“I'll let you know when I find out. She hasn't called lately, has she?” Clint knew he didn't need to specify who.

“Last week,” Fury admitted.

“I asked you to tell me when she calls.” Clint gritted his teeth, his hand balling into a fist.

“SHIELD isn't taking this one. I've got orders from the Council to let it slide. I thought it might go more smoothly if I didn't say anything.”

“They're going to kill her, you son of a bitch! It's probably our fault. You're just going to let it happen?”

“SHIELD is not authorized to expend any resources on the extraction of an enemy agent.”

Clint took a deep breath, preparing a diatribe for the director but it stuck in his throat. “Did you know she'd call me?”

“I didn't know she had your number,” Fury replied. “Take as much time as you need. Hell, take it with pay. Let me know how the family is, okay?”

The pipes groaned as a toilet flushed upstairs. Clint glanced at the ceiling. “Go to hell.”

He poured the coffee and took a cup up to Laura. “Get dressed and get your passport.”

“What's wrong?”

***

03.20.02; 11:56;

48.6977477,44.3757754 (Saint Euphrosyne’s School for Girls)

Everything had taken too much time. Cobbling together a rough plan, arming and armoring themselves, the flight, it had all taken too long. The Bartons landed in a field in the middle of nowhere and walked three miles before Clint found a car he could hotwire.

He fumbled with the wires while Laura played lookout. The air was cool but he found himself wiping sweat out of his eyes. 

“Mother fucker!” Clint scraped the side of his head against the steering wheel as he recoiled. He backed out of the car shaking his hand.

“Clint?” Laura reached for him but he swatted her hand away.

“Wrong fucking wire. On the plus side, we’ve got good battery power if I can get the damn thing sorted out. I haven’t done this in forever.” He rolled his head, cracking his neck and flexed his shoulders. “This is the worst idea I’ve had in a while, what the fuck was I thinking?”

Laura smiled faintly. “You were thinking that there’s a kid in trouble and you’re all she has.” She pulled a steel thermos out of her backpack. “Here. It’s probably not real hot anymore, but I was saving this for a special occasion.” She gave him a little wink as she handed it over. 

Clint unscrewed the lid and took a swig of the coffee. “It’s good.” He sighed and took another drink. “I don’t suppose you brought a cigarette.”

“You quit.” Laura fixed him with a glare. 

He rubbed his eyes roughly, pulling the skin as he dragged his palms down his cheeks. “Nobody likes a quitter.” 

She didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile.

“Hey, the last time I stole a car, I was still a smoker. My brain thinks the two are connected.” He recapped the thermos. “Alright, back to work.”

He got the car started on his fourth attempt and finished the coffee while they drove into town. Parked a short distance from the school, Clint left Laura with the car and a comm and a set of binoculars while he explored the small campus.

Clint’s usual MO was a lot of setup for a rather small payoff. This payoff was going to be much bigger. He set small explosive charges and flammable materials-- not to destroy the buildings, but to force evacuation. He started with a dormitory, likely to be near deserted anyway at midday.

Laura saw the first tendrils of black smoke curl up into the flat grey sky. She rolled the window down and listened for gunshots.

People rushed toward the building to gawk and to try to extinguish the flames. As he saw a security team assemble, Clint took aim. One man fell. The others looked around. Another man fell. As Clint took aim at the third, another building blew all its windows out, flames licking out towards the fresh air. Panic began to spread through the crowd. He quietly snuck into a building labeled _Infirmary_. He grabbed the first person he saw, slammed her into a wall and pressed the barrel of the rifle under her chin.

“Where is Natalya Romanova?” Clint asked in his best Russian.

The woman’s eyes went wide. “Downstairs,” she said, pointing to a doorway.

Clint tapped his comm. “Next,” he said in English. The infirmary trembled as the building next to it exploded into flames. He released the nurse and took the stairs two at a time.

Laura glanced at the clock and took a deep breath. There were eight buildings on campus. She’d blown three. When she ran out of buildings, she was supposed to leave, with or without Clint. She wasn’t leaving without him.

The basement greeted him with a blue sign above a pair of metal doors. Clint’s heart stopped. He stared at the sign and wished he’d never learned Russian.

_Morgue._

Slowly, Clint pushed the doors open. They swung silently on their hinges. One wall of the morgue was stacked metal drawers. The other three were painted a dark, foreboding red, like blood beginning to dry. The floor was stained concrete. A stretcher waited beneath a harsh light on one side of the room.

It was cold in the morgue; Clint could see his breath. As he crept towards the motionless girl on the stretcher, Clint suddenly realized that he could see hers as well. He sprinted across the room. The paper thin hospital gown had more color than Natalya’s cheeks. He picked her up, warm and heavy -- dead weight. He shook off the thought.

“We’re coming,” he told Laura.

 _We_. Laura sat up a little straighter. Her eyes bright, a hint of a smile graced her lips as she pressed the next button.

The fires and the explosions kept the people outside busy and distracted while Clint made his way back to the car. He slid into the backseat with the girl still in his arms. “Drive, not straight back to the jet, we have to make sure we’re not followed.”

“I know how to lose a tail,” Laura replied, shifting the car into gear. Clint laid the rifle on the floor of the car and drew a pistol.

The car was running on fumes by the time they reached the field where the quinjet was waiting, cloaked. Clint carried the girl onto the plane, laying her in the back, while Laura set the car on fire.

“You’re kind of a pyro,” he remarked as she joined him on board.

“You love that about me,” Laura reminded him. She gently touched Natalya’s cheek. “She’s burning up.”

“I know.”

“She needs a doctor.”

“I know.” Clint was busy working on getting them off the ground. “I’m thinking London.”

“Her pulse is racing.” Laura pressed her fingers to the girl’s frail wrist.

“Just keep an eye on her, let me know if she gets worse.”

Clint flew in silence while Laura fretted over the girl. A few hours passed before Laura spoke. “She's not going to make it to London; her lips are blue.”

“Okay.” Clint’s voice was low and surprisingly calm. “Okay, I'll find something closer.”

A few minutes later he was on the radio, speaking first Russian, then English and finally German as he struggled to find a common language with the man on the other end. He dropped altitude.

“Clint, she had a seizure.”

“We’re almost there,” he said, gritting his teeth through some turbulence. “Are you sure she’s not just shivering?”

Laura didn’t answer and Clint was grateful for it, he had to put all his focus into landing on the roof of the hospital. He set the quinjet down and unbuckled, turning to check on Laura and the girl. Laura was kneeling on the floor of the plane, performing chest compressions.

“Jesus.” He dropped the gangplank and two medics rolled a stretcher on board. One of them said something, and Laura shook her head and looked at Clint blankly.

“We don’t speak any Polish,” Clint said. The medics took over for Laura, hooking up monitors as they worked. One of them shouted across the roof and another man ran up.

“English?” the newcomer asked.

“Oh God yes,” Laura answered.

“How long has she been down?” he asked.

Laura looked at her watch. “Maybe three minutes? She had a seizure and then when it stopped I couldn’t find her pulse.”

They began to wheel the stretcher away.

“Are you family?” the man asked.

“Yes.” Laura didn’t hesitate. That one moment was everything Clint loved about her all at once.

“Do you know what happened?” He looked at Clint. “You can’t leave that there, we have to keep it clear for helicopter.”

“Right, I’ll just go park. Laura, you stay with Nat.”

***

03.20.02; 21:04;

52.2326063, 20.7810167 (a hospital in Warsaw, Poland)

Laura pulled Clint aside as soon as he returned to the hospital. “She’s your niece, your sister’s daughter,” Laura said in a hushed tone. “Her parents died in a car accident. We got legal guardianship, but her father’s family refused to turn her over to us. We hired a private investigator who found her and we flew out to get her. We don’t know what happened, we haven’t seen her in months. How’s that sound?”

Clint kissed her fiercely on the forehead. “I love your brain. And your heart. And you. All of you. So much.”

“I’m not as good at cover stories as you are.”

“You’re magnificent.” He kissed her forehead again and then her lips. “I don’t deserve you.”

***

03.21.02; 19:42;

Hell was a hospital bed, and Natalya was in it. She felt cold all over but too weak to shiver. Pain pressed down on her, pinning her to the starched sheets. Her eyelids twitched; she didn’t want to open them. The light hurt through them. She took a breath. She could breathe.

“I think she’s waking up,” a woman’s voice, soft and warm and American, said.

“You were wrong.”

Natalya recognized the man’s voice right away. She opened her eyes. “I told you not to come.” Her voice was rough at the edges, weaker than she wanted it to be.

“You said I’d be too late. You were wrong. Wrong by minutes, but here we are,” Clint said.

“Why bother?”

The woman stood and kissed Clint on the cheek. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee and let the nurses know she’s conscious.”

He smiled and nodded and walked her to the door of the hospital room, his hand at the small of her back. Alone, he returned to Natalya’s beside.

“What do you remember?” Clint asked.

“You never mentioned you were married.” She licked her cracked lips and drew a strained breath.

Clint glanced at the door. “Yeah, it’s something I don’t tell a lot of people. For her safety. Do you remember what happened?”

Natalya closed her eyes. “I remember them taking me in for the procedure. A mask over my nose and mouth. Then waking up here.” She shook her head. “I didn't think I’d be waking up.”

“Did you know what the procedure was?”

“Sterilization,” Natalya answered. “They do it to all the girls at graduation.”

There was a lot in that statement; Clint paused to take it all in.

“Did you know you were pregnant?” he asked.

She winced. He watched the flash of her throat as she swallowed.

“Yes,” Natalya admitted with a tiny nod. “If I’d told them, it would have been worse.”

“They didn’t know.” Clint’s voice was soft.

“It would have been worse,” Natalya insisted.

“I just figured they were trying to terminate the pregnancy and botched it. It’s the other way around: they meant to do a hysterectomy, the pregnancy was a complication. Anyway, you lost a lot of blood and developed a postoperative infection,” Clint said. “Went into septic shock. The doctor says you’re going to recover.”

“I’d rather just die.”

“It’ll be a few weeks until the doctors clear you to travel,” he said, ignoring her comment. “But once that happens, you’ll come home with us. Me, and my wife, Laura.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” Natalya said.

He sighed and gave her a crooked frown. The look of a man who was having his well-meaning help declined. “But if you live with us, as long as the adoption is finalized before you turn eighteen, you get US citizenship,” Clint explained.

Natalya was quiet for a long moment, studying his face. “Adoption?”

“US Citizenship,” he emphasized.

“And I’d work for SHIELD?”

“That’s your choice. We’re working on getting you some education credentials. Although, the Red Room using a boarding school as a cover is actually helping.”

“I did graduate.” Natalya’s hand moved to rest over her stomach.

***

05.01.02; 10:08;

42.7300707,-92.5132795 (The Barton Homestead)

“So this is home,” Laura said, unlocking the door. The house was cluttered, furnished with warmth and humility and mismatched armchairs. The kitchen counters had been wiped and washed so many times, the laminate had faded along the seams. A dog slowly lumbered off the couch. Natalya, unfamiliar with dogs except as guards, tensed slightly.

“That’s Beau, Beauregard,” Laura said. “He’s not supposed to be on the furniture. Clearly that rule is heavily enforced.”

The dog wagged his tail and wandered over to give the newcomer a sniff. He was tall enough that she could touch his head without bending over. She stood perfectly still while he examined her.

“He’s mostly deaf, so try not to startle him,” Clint advised. “Especially when he’s sleeping.”

Beauregard shoved a cold nose into her palm. She lifted her hand out of reach and stared at him.

“He’s trying to get you to pet him,” Clint explained.

The girl stood in the doorway, taking it all in. “I’ve never lived in a house before.”

“Well, there’s a guest room upstairs we can use for your bedroom. If you want to repaint or you want different furniture, let me know,” Clint offered.

Natalya looked at her duffle bag. They’d bought her a few changes of clothes in Warsaw. “I guess I should unpack.”

“Come on.” Laura held out her hand. “I’ll give you the tour.”

Natalya followed, not saying anything, as Laura showed her the bedrooms, bathroom, a room with a sewing machine and shelves of fabric and other craft supplies. Beauregard trailed them from room to room. Clint was frowning at a piece of mail when they came back down to the kitchen.

“Something wrong?”

“Yeah, they screwed up her name. Natasha instead of Natalya and fucked up the spelling of the last name.”

Natalya frowned. “How do you misspell Barton?” She reached for the paper.

Clint froze as she plucked it from his hands. He saw comprehension and a flash, quickly hidden, of disappointment flicker through her eyes.

“Oh,” she said in a flat, controlled voice.

“I didn’t assume,” Clint whispered, half mumbling. He cleared his throat. “We’ll get it fixed before we finalize everything.”

“It’s - don’t bother - I think it’s okay. I like Natasha, it suits me fine. And Romanoff is close enough.”

“I’m sure it’s not a big deal to get it corrected,” Laura said.

“I like Natasha,” she repeated. “It feels like a fresh start.”

  



End file.
